What happened to the shape of days?
The slow unfolding of dawn, the clear delineation of time — beginning, end, respite
that marked space for pursuits of gods — Hypnos, Eros, Hephaestus. (Though rarely in that order.)
Our haloed mechanisms godlike now — omnipotent, omnipresent, omniscient.
Hey Siri: Who is Hephaestus?
And so we worship false gods, bow down to their divine scheme,
keep talismans close at hand for fear to miss their callings
their new demands of sacrifice — silence, sabbath, solitude.
I fear they’ve killed Atlas, too, left our world spinning
without the stars to guide us,
without the sun and shadow, our shape of days
Poem ©2022, Jen Payne. Photo by Scotch Mist, Head of Sculpture of Chronos in Knights’ Hall of Royal Castle, Warsaw, Poland.
4 replies on “Chronos Weeps”
I love this.
Oh, I thought (hoped) you might.